They all stood looking down at the woman. She was bleeding from both of her ears as well as the ragged wounds on the side of her head from the rebar. There were no more moans, just a sort of fluttery breathing. Sykes kicked her in the head but there was no response. Then he became aware of a high-pitched wailing, in the distance but growing louder.
"Jayshon!" Davis had yelled. "It's 5-0! We got to get the hell out of here."
"What about her?" Kwasama asked.
Jayshon shrugged. "She's dead," he said and took off running.
Sykes had no idea what had become of the rat man after that, except that he wasn't caught. But the others were not so lucky. The cops had picked up Kevin Little and Packer Wilson as they were walking home to Bedford-Stuyvesant; when Kwasama Jones heard about his friends, he'd gone down to the precinct station with his mother. Based on what they said, the cops had showed up the next day and arrested Sykes and Davis.
Little had testified against them, but Wilson and Jones got the hint and clammed up, and Davis he'd never had to worry about. He'd made his own mistakes, like bragging to that ho, Hannah Little, that he'd enjoyed raping the white bitch.
Next time, no bragging, 'cept to the homies, he thought. But that stupid muthafucka Villalobos had to brag to Kaminsky, and maybe fuck up the whole plan. Well, when this is over, I'll have some of the homies pay him a visit and cut his fuckin' heart out and stuff it down his mouth while it's still beating. He was also pissed off that Lynd had messed up a simple knife job.
The fat lawyer had gotten on his case about shoving the wrong Kaminsky brother beneath the train but it wasn't his fault. How was I to know he had a twin? Louis didn't tell him until later that he knew where to find Kaminsky because he'd received a call from Olav Radinskaya, the Brooklyn borough president, who employed Ivan Kaminsky. Ivan Kaminsky had asked for the afternoon off to go meet his brother at Grand Central Station on the number 4 train platform.
Louis should have told me there were two brothers, Sykes thought, frowning at the lawyer. Now he was going to have to wait for the remaining Kaminsky to surface again. He tuned back in to the conversation between Louis and Breman when he heard the name Kaminsky.
"I just hope that if he does surface, you'll contact me first," Louis was saying. "I want to ask him a few questions before the police nab him and get a chance to feed him a story to protect their colleagues."
"Well, again, that's a rather unusual request," Breman said. She realized, though it was a jolt to her conscience, that at the same time she was pleased because it gave her power over Louis that he was afraid of what Kaminsky had to say. However, the pleasure and illusion of power were short-lived.
"Forgive them, but my clients here were the ones who wanted to meet you and have me ask that if you hear from Kaminsky, you call me first," he said. "They wanted me to express how very unhappy they will be if this lying sack of shit Kaminsky is allowed to ruin our hard work."
The reference to the gangsters made Breman want to go to the bathroom. How did it ever get this far? she wondered as she squirmed a little trying to get comfortable. She hazarded a glance at Sykes. He was grinning like the Cheshire cat and had a hand on his crotch. "Maybe you'd like a taste of this now?" he offered.
The men were still laughing when she hopped up and fled through the office and reception area and out the door of the building, stumbling down the steps. Teddy Chalk ran across the sidewalk and caught her by her arm or she might have fallen.
"Did they harm you, ma'am?" he asked, his face a mask of concern and anger.
"Oh, quit with the fucking chivalry, you idiot, and drive," she snarled as she jumped into the backseat of the limo. As they made their way south and east through Harlem into East Harlem, she broke down and cried. She cried so hard she hardly noticed the two Arab-looking men standing outside the small mosque, one of them staring down an alley with his hand in his coat.
10
Monday, December 13
"Good morning, Mr. Karp," Mrs. Darla Milquetost, his new receptionist, said in what was her perpetual monotone when he walked into his office on the eighth floor of the Criminal Courts building. He'd hoped that she'd be away from her desk getting coffee or something, as he'd had all the disapproving stares he wanted that morning.
Mrs. Milquetost had informed him on her first day on the job that she, too, found the name unfortunate but it was the only one her husband had, and as a good Catholic it had been her duty to assume her husband's family name. "I'd appreciate it if you would avoid sniggering when you say my name."
"Sniggering?"
"Yes," she replied. "Sniggering. Everyone always does unless I put my foot down at the beginning."
"Well then, I assure you I will not snigger nor tolerate sniggering in this office, Mrs. Milquetost," he'd said without sniggering…at least until he was in his office.
At first he'd wondered if Mrs. Milquetost, a temp from the steno pool, might not be quite the right fit for the office. But she'd proved to be an efficient, hardworking, and, importantly, closemouthed receptionist, even if she did dress like June Cleaver on the old television series Leave It to Beaver.
"Would you like me to have those boxes in your office removed, Mr. Karp," said Mrs. Milquetost, who refused to call him Butch and didn't like random piles of boxes showing up. "Do you need me to call someone to move them to filing?"
"No, Mrs. Milquetost, they're fine right where they are for now," he said, continuing through the door leading to his inner sanctum, where he hoped for a few contemplative minutes before the morning meetings began.
The day had not started off on a good note. Marlene was still ticked at him for the "stray dog" comment and refused to accept his apology. He even tried kissing her as she lay in bed, but she'd kept her lips as tight as possible and simply glared at him until he gave up.
Out in the kitchen, he'd cheered up some to find the twins, who, surprisingly, were already up and dressed in sweats, hoping they'd get a chance to play basketball with the big boys on the courts at Sixth and Fourth. Their lively banter had taken a little of the chill out of the air, until Zak was reminded that he and his brother had bar mitzvah class that night.
"Ah gee, during vacation?" Zak complained.
Zak's demeanor got worse when his brother then exclaimed, "Great! I can't wait." Zak then punched Giancarlo in the arm and called him a "butt kisser." A loud wrestling match ensued, which was broken up by Marlene, who'd stomped from the bedroom, separated the boys, then glared at Karp as if he'd put them up to it, before stomping back to the bedroom. The ice age had returned, so he dressed and left for work.
"Mr. Kipman is waiting for you," Mrs. Milquetost said just as he opened the door. He sighed; there went his few minutes alone, but at least Harry tended to calm his nerves, not rake them across the fiery coals of hell.
Kipman was sitting on the couch reading a book. Karp turned his head to look at the title: The Dust-Covered Man: The Story of Ulysses S. Grant.
"Good book?" Karp asked.
"Interesting," Kipman replied. "Funny how some of the famous people in history sort of come into the roles that will define their greatness by accident. Grant for instance. He was a West Point grad and a hero of the Mexican-American War for his actions during the storming of Mexico City. But he was out of the army, working as a clerk for his father-in-law's harness business when the Civil War broke out. He went in as a captain. He ends up as the top general in the Union Army, and pretty much ends up winning the war for them. I doubt he gave greatness a second thought when he joined…in fact, he already had something of a drinking problem."